Five Reasons Sam Went To Stanford
by Nix Blaque
Summary: And the one reason that he regretted leaving . Plenty of hurt!Sam, and a little Hurt!Dean to tide you over!


**Title: **_Five Reasons Sam Left for Stanford (and one reason he regretted leaving)._  
><strong>Author: <strong>_nblaque_impala _  
><strong>Rating: <strong>_PG-13 _  
><strong>Genre: <strong>_Gen, hurt/comfort _  
><strong>Characters: <strong>_Sam, Dean, John _  
><strong>Spoilers: <strong>_None – it's entirely __Pre-series._  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>_are completely unneeded for this one!_  
><strong>Words:<strong>_ 2, 715._  
><strong>Summary: <strong>_Five reasons that Sam left for Stanford, and the one reason he regretted leaving._  
><strong>AN: **_One of those spur-of-the-moment things. Lots of hurt!Sam and a little bit of hurt!Dean to tide you over. My first Supernatural story, so let me know what you think (and whether you'd be interested in an extended version, where each reason has a chapter of its own)! I'm open to con-criticism. Beta'd by the wonderful Sammy Darling, who also made the lovely banner for it :) Any and all remaining mistakes are completely mine. Also posted on livejournal._

[-]

**1. Because he would never be the hunter that everyone expected him to be.**

"Damn it, Sam, I told you to duck!" John shouted, wiping blood onto his face with the back of his hand. "Why the hell did you hesitate? Did you want the Wendigo to scratch your brother? Is this some kind of payback for that argument you were having?"

Sam blinked, knowing that his father didn't seriously think that he gotten Dean hurt on purpose, but feeling sick at the idea regardless. The sight of Dean's blood was making his head swim, and when he closed his eyes it was to see Dean collapsing to the floor in a tangle of limbs – over, and over, and over again.

The worst part was that John was right. He had told Sam to duck; and Sam, who had sprouted five inches in five months, had gotten tangled up in his own limbs and had failed to hit the floor in time for his father to get a decent shot over his head. The Wendigo was already in mid-leap when their father had spotted it; in the precious seconds that it took Sam to hit the floor, it landed hard on his brother and began tearing a chunk out of his leg – even as John fired the flare gun, and the screaming creature burst into flames.

By the time that Sam had reached his brother's side, his father was already applying pressure and ordering Sam back to the car for the medical kit.

Sam complied, partly to help his brother, and partly to escape the look of pure disappointment on John Winchester's face.

**[-]**

**2. Because forcing Dean to be his big brother and his father-figure just wasn't fair.**

"Sammy? Hey, man, wake up for a second, would you?"

Sam blinked his tired eyes open, just able to make out the outline of his brother above the tangle of blankets that he'd cocooned himself in. His bed was moving slightly, and there was a brief moment of confusion before his brain connected the smell, movement and sense of home, and concluded that both him and his brother were currently in the back seat of the Impala.

"Seriously, Sammy," Dean nudged. "You awake in there?"

"Unfortunately," Sam mumbled around a thick tongue. He blinked slightly at the feeling, wondering what was going on, before vaguely remembering something about a hospital and an excruciating pain. Frowning, he forced himself to talk again. "Appendix?"

"Not quite, dude," Dean replied, offering him a grin that looked somehow wrong, running a hand through Sam's hair in a way that had his muscles relaxing back into the leather of the seat. "You ruptured your spleen when the ghost threw you into that tree on Monday. You should have said something about how much it was hurting, you idiot. Do you have any idea how scared I was, coming back to find you passed out on the bathroom floor?"

"Sorry," Sam mumbled, snuggling back into the warmth of his nest. "How long?"

Dean knew the rest of the question without Sam having to voice it.

"It's Friday… just. I found you Tuesday morning and they took you into surgery. Apparently, you're now spleen-less, just in case you were wondering. You've been in and out of it since then… mostly out."

Sam nodded vaguely, and then frowned.

"Dad?"

Dean's face tightened, and when his hand resumed stroking through Sam's hair, the youngest Winchester wondered who he was really comforting.

"He came and picked us up earlier tonight… or yesterday. Apparently we're headed to Dakota – Bobby's got a lead on a poltergeist or… something." Dean reported evenly, snorting and rolling his eyes at Sam's raised eyebrow. "Whatever, it's 3AM, dude. You still feeling alright? I've been waking you up to give you your painkillers, but you've been pretty out of it."

Sam blinked for a few seconds, assessing himself, and then grinned. "M'okay. Feel great. Jus' sleepy."

Dean snorted.

"Yeah, get some sleep, Sammy. I've got you."

When Sam awoke – a little more coherently – the next morning, he recalled Dean's words with a sadness that weighed heavily on his heart, because Dean had made it painfully clear that he'd been the one maintaining the bedside vigil, whilst his father had been out doing God-only-knows-what.

Dean was the one only of the two who was fulfilling any role that could be considered parental, and he was only nineteen.  
>Sam wondered how he'd never noticed that before.<p>

**[-]**

**3. Because Sam and John Winchester were never going to get along. Not really.**

"Sam Winchester, you get back here right now, or I swear to God-"

The front door slammed shut on his father's threat, and Sam hit the road running, the burn of tears in his eyes and blood staining his clothes.

It was five AM, and most normal teenagers would be asleep in their beds, or – at worst – preparing for another day at school. They'd be dreaming about turning up to class naked, or Millie Jones' birthday, or hundreds of other things that would never find their way into the dreams of a Winchester.

A normal teenager would be happy.

Sam Winchester was cold and hungry; wearing clothes stained with mud and blood, and three hours out of a hunt he'd never wanted to go on in the first place.

His class had an exam today – in under three hours – and all Sam had wanted was to collapse onto his bed and study until his brain exploded. He'd wanted to ace the exam, just so that he had one way to make at least Dean proud.

The argument probably shouldn't have come as such a surprise. Sam was tired, and everyone knew that he was more loose-lipped when he was tired, and somehow he'd found himself staring down at his bloodied clothes, his bandaged arm and knowing that his already-swelling eye would mean that there wasn't going to be any exam in his near future.

And that's when the words had fallen out of his mouth, long before he could even think about stopping them.

"Are you happy now, dad?" He'd near-whispered, staring at the closed Chemistry textbooks on the kitchen table. "I'm cold, hurt, and miserable. Is that what you wanted? Was that your aim for the night? Because that's what you've achieved."

Predictably, John Winchester had gone mental. He'd shouted that Sam was selfish; that they'd been saving lives, and all Sam could think about was some stupid chemistry exam that didn't mean anything.

"It's worth half my grade!" Sam had shouted, near-tears with frustration, and his father had just raised his eyebrow.

"So?" He'd shot back. "You'll be eighteen in two years, and you'll be working as a hunter full-time, what good will grades be to you then? Why are they so important now?"

Sam had found himself tumbling back out of the house, before he could scream something at his father that he'd regret later.

Perhaps something along the lines of, "Because they'll help me get away from you!"

In two hours, Sam would stumble into the house and come face-to-face with a furious and half-drunk John Winchester. He would lower his eyes to the floor, swallow his pride, and apologise.

In two years, Sam would run out of another decrepit house so much like that one, and he'd swear to himself that John would never get another apology.

**[-]**

**4. Because Sam didn't want to die.**

Sam loved swimming; loved everything about it. The feel of the water surrounding him, the easy glide of confident limbs and the heat from working muscles.

He hated drowning.

The water wraith had him held tight at the bottom of the lake; seaweed-like arms tethering him down and only tightening as he struggled frantically. Already his vision was being obscured by floating black dots, and the pressure in his chest and lungs was begging him to open his mouth.

The analytical, practical part of his brain knew without a doubt that in a few seconds, he was going to pass out, and when he did? His mouth would open, the water would come rushing in, and then he'd die.

The rest of his brain was too busy screaming, _'I can't die yet, I'm only fourteen!' _to think about such trivial things.

In the end, the practical part won out, and Sam's vision faded into darkness.

-o-

He couldn't breathe.

Something was slamming into his chest over and over; his eyes stung behind eyelids too heavy to open, and he vaguely registered people shouting around him, but none of that was important, because Sam couldn't breathe.

His brain seemed to register this fact properly a second after it crossed his mind, and suddenly he was choking. The voices were a little louder now, although still distorted, and hands were rolling him onto his side as he body coughed and heaved and his eyes finally blinked open.

He was on a beach, sand and his wet hair plastered to his face even as water spilled from his mouth. Some part of Sam connected a flash of black leather out of the corner of his eye and the gentle hands on his back and head and connected them as Dean, and Sam's panic receded a little.

The water was coming in little spurts now, even as Sam fought for breath, and his body felt heavy – like he was still in the water, floating and drifting. His eyes closed again, but his ears picked up words rather than the rushing of waves.

"-Sammy? Please, Sammy, God. I've got you. It's okay; I'm here. It's going to be alright."

The world faded out again.

-o-

"Sam?" Someone called, and a gentle hand shook his shoulder. "Sam, we need you to wake up for a minute, kid."

Sam's brow wrinkled in confusion.

Only Dean called him kid, and that wasn't his brother's voice - it was too gentle and soft, light and airy… feminine. It was a woman. Slowly, Sam blinked his eyes open, fighting to keep them that way when the air hit them and made them sting all over again.

Bright light assaulted his senses, and it was a few seconds before he could see the three people crowded over his bed. A man and two women.

None of them were Dean, and that's when the panic set in, and Sam found himself fighting against three pairs of hands and tired muscles in a desperate attempt to locate the one thing that would ensure he was safe.

"You need to calm down, Sam," The woman was shouting. "You're alright. You're safe."

Sam shook his head violently, unable to stop the tears from falling from his eyes as he failed to get free, and then the women were getting yanked away and another face appeared there.

Dean.

The fight went out of Sam instantly, and he fell back against the bed as Dean's hand found his and his big brother smiled.

"There you are, Sammy," Dean smiled, and Sam frowned at the tears in his eyes. "We thought we'd lost you for a while there, but you're alright now, okay? We're going to take care of you."

There was a long pause, and then Dean huffed a laugh.

"God, Sammy, don't ever do that to me again!"

**[-]**

**5. Because he couldn't – wouldn't – watch Dean die.**

"Help!" Sam shouted, staggering under the weight of his unconscious brother. "Please, I need help!"

For a second, the medical staff seemed to just stand and stare, and then everyone was moving. Dean was being lifted away from him, and doctors and nurses were scrambling – shouting, and Sam's brain couldn't keep up.

He swayed drunkenly, and a hand found his elbow, steering him down into a cold, plastic seat.

"Are you hurt, kid?" A kindly-looking nurse asked, and then, "Can you tell me your name?"

"Sam," The eighteen-year-old replied near drunkenly, and then, "Where are they taking him? What are they doing? Is he alright?"

The world spun alarmingly, and the nurse caught his face in her hands, turning him to look at her. He blinked for a few seconds, and the breathed out long a slow.

The nurse smiled.

"Alright there, Sam. My name's Marie – I'm a nurse here. Now, I need you to tell me if you're hurt."

He was. He had a concussion, he knew that for certain, although he'd popped his dislocated shoulder back into place in his efforts to drag Dean into the Impala. His wrist – carefully tucked into his jacket sleeve – was swollen, but Sam was fairly certain that it was only sprained.

"No, I'm fine," He said. "But please – my brother, is he going to be alright?"

Marie sighed.

"I'll tell you what, if you stay here and eat the cookie and orange juice I'm going to send over here, I'll go and find out what's going on with your brother. Alright?"

Sam nodded vaguely.

-o-

It was six hours before he finally heard any real news on his brother, and by then he'd phoned his father forty-six times; he'd left twenty-two messages, twelve of which had ended in him crying and begging his father to come and find some way to help Dean.

His father still wasn't there, so he'd settled for answering the paperwork as best as he could manage and wondering if this was how Dean always felt.

'Hospital Waiting Room' was officially his number one in the list of the top ten places that he hated. Shortly followed by any small space… and sewer tunnels. _God_, he hated sewer tunnels.

"Sam Westbury?" The doctor called, and it took Sam a lot longer than it should have to realise that it was him that the doctor was calling for.

"Yes," He said, a little too loudly, as he stood as quickly as he could – ignoring the protests of his aching knees and dead feet. "How is he?"

"Your brother suffered a deep laceration to his stomach," The doctor said, and Sam felt his stomach drop to his feet as he took in his grave face. "Thankfully, it missed all of his vital organs, but he did lose a significant amount of blood. He's receiving a blood transfusion as we speak, and hopefully he should make a full recovery."

"Oh, thank god," Sam sighed out, letting his shoulders slump a little in relief. The doctor offered him a small smile, nodding at the waiting room. "If you want to take a seat, I'll come and get you when your brother gets out of recovery and is placed in a ward."

Sam nodded, allowing a small smile to cross his face.

"Thank you. Thank you so much."

-o-

Two days later, John Winchester bailed his eldest son out of the hospital, packed him into the car and headed for the mountains and another hunt.

A week after that, Sam sent off an application for Stanford.

The reality was, he could take anything, but he couldn't watch his brother die.

He'd rather die himself.

**[-]**

****Bonus - There was only one thing that could have ever made Sam regret leaving for Stanford.  
>It came in the form of a postcard, with Dean's writing scrawled on the back.<strong>**

_Sammy,_

_Hard to believe that it's been four months without you. Guess it's true what they say: time passes when you're killing evil things and saving people._

_I just wanted you to know that I'm not going to write to you again. This is a one-time thing, alright, Sam? And I know that you won't write, 'cause you don't know where we are. But that's alright. I know you're safe at Stanford, and that's the important part._

_It's just that, when you left, I never told you that I was proud of you. It's been four damn months, and that's still the only thing that I can think about. I think that's all you wanted, isn't it? Someone to be proud of you. And I was. Am, I mean._

_So, enjoy it, man._

_And for God's sake, remember to salt the windows and doors. And draw the runes. And sigils. And do the cleansing rituals. And watch your back._

_Hell, just be safe, Sammy._

_I'll miss you, man._

_Love, Dean._

_P.S. – The only reason that this is so chick-flicky is because I'm drunk. Very, very drunk._


End file.
